[Got a car, got some gas]
Phil got a 1996 Buick Park Avenue. I haven't seen it yet, but here's what the Internet tells me it looks like:
He says he loves it. He has a thing for big showboating cars with hood ornaments. He drove a shit-brown '69 Chevy Nova when we first started dating and it was pretty sexy on him. AM radio only. Anemic AC/heat. Those nice big bench seats.
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I think he's going to come visit me tomorrow. It'll be his first trip down here. I can't wait to see him and share my squalor with him.
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The birds are back in my ceiling, this time with a vengeance. I've been assaulting my ceiling tiles in a grand futile gesture to scare them off, but they've just burrowed deeper into the room and I've just made a huge mess of dirt and dust and bits of nest on my floor. The maintenance man came today and put birdseed-encrusted chunks of poison in my ceiling. He said it kills the birds and dries them from the inside out so they won't stink. How considerate. Now if only I can get them to block off the hole so no more birds can get in and wake me at 5 a.m. This must mean that the last time they "relocated" the birds (they told me they would remove them and place them outside somewhere, and then pack the hole with these pads that are warm, which repels the birds because they don't want to step on this hot stuff), they actually just poisoned them. So my ceiling is actually a bird cemetery. Good to know. I think my matress is a strip mall for spiders, so it makes sense.
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Been reading a lot lately. Tore through Fear of Flying in two days. It was a rare treat, a real cultural icon. America the Beautiful, Moon Unit Zappa's first novel, was really good, too. I've been teetering near the end of Winterson's The World and Other Places for weeks now, and it is, of course, gorgeous. I read Best American Erotica 2002 and realized that I can write erotic short stories that have a chance of being published, since it's such a campy genre. Here's a short story I wrote a week or two ago. It's not really erotic, but it has a happy ending.
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Amber booked my flight, so I'm officially helping Pamber (hoo ha) move to New York at the end of the month. While I look forward to the road trip and going to Patrick's dad's house (I've never traveled to that neck of the woods), I'm considerably melancholy about my pals moving so far away for so long. This growing up thing keeps getting weirder.
Phil got a 1996 Buick Park Avenue. I haven't seen it yet, but here's what the Internet tells me it looks like:
He says he loves it. He has a thing for big showboating cars with hood ornaments. He drove a shit-brown '69 Chevy Nova when we first started dating and it was pretty sexy on him. AM radio only. Anemic AC/heat. Those nice big bench seats.
+++
I think he's going to come visit me tomorrow. It'll be his first trip down here. I can't wait to see him and share my squalor with him.
+++
The birds are back in my ceiling, this time with a vengeance. I've been assaulting my ceiling tiles in a grand futile gesture to scare them off, but they've just burrowed deeper into the room and I've just made a huge mess of dirt and dust and bits of nest on my floor. The maintenance man came today and put birdseed-encrusted chunks of poison in my ceiling. He said it kills the birds and dries them from the inside out so they won't stink. How considerate. Now if only I can get them to block off the hole so no more birds can get in and wake me at 5 a.m. This must mean that the last time they "relocated" the birds (they told me they would remove them and place them outside somewhere, and then pack the hole with these pads that are warm, which repels the birds because they don't want to step on this hot stuff), they actually just poisoned them. So my ceiling is actually a bird cemetery. Good to know. I think my matress is a strip mall for spiders, so it makes sense.
+++
Been reading a lot lately. Tore through Fear of Flying in two days. It was a rare treat, a real cultural icon. America the Beautiful, Moon Unit Zappa's first novel, was really good, too. I've been teetering near the end of Winterson's The World and Other Places for weeks now, and it is, of course, gorgeous. I read Best American Erotica 2002 and realized that I can write erotic short stories that have a chance of being published, since it's such a campy genre. Here's a short story I wrote a week or two ago. It's not really erotic, but it has a happy ending.
+++
Amber booked my flight, so I'm officially helping Pamber (hoo ha) move to New York at the end of the month. While I look forward to the road trip and going to Patrick's dad's house (I've never traveled to that neck of the woods), I'm considerably melancholy about my pals moving so far away for so long. This growing up thing keeps getting weirder.
posted by theogeo | 7/12/2004 10:25:00 PM
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